Blood! Horror! Romanian Chickens!

"I am never reading a newspaper again," Xander said, folded the newspaper, and set it very carefully as far away from himself as he could.

"That's dire, pet." Spike reached up, rubbing a hand over Xander's side, but didn't move from his comfortable spot, head on Xander's belly, feet on the edge of the couch, remote control in one hand, and cigarette in the other. He'd petted with the remote control hand, fortunately. "What's put you off, then? The election back home? War? Illness? Poverty? Another Olsen Twins movie?"

Xander was silent for long enough that Spike began to worry and looked away from the television to see Xander's face filling his view, wide eyed, and more shocked than Spike had seen him since the last almost-Apocalypse. "Man mistakenly cuts off penis," Xander said, unable to conceal a wince. "Dog eats it."

"What?! How do you mistakenly cut off your dick?" Spike sat up, twisting around and scrambling across Xander for the newspaper, muttering around his cigarette as he hunted for the article. "Do you go about naked waving a bloody great blade around and then whoops! Cut a little close to the edge there? Circumcision gone wrong? Extreme sword dancing?"

"He mistook it for a chicken neck."

Spike stopped, and looked more closely at Xander. "You memorized it?"

"I am having trauma-induced flashbacks to reading the article, Spike. I'm going to have nightmares about this."

"About mistaking your cock for a chicken neck?" Spike settled back into the couch, slouching down and propping his feet on the coffee table as a matter of reputation for being bad-mannered. "For one thing, they really don't look a bit alike and what in sodding hell was a bloke doing cutting chicken necks with his percy hanging out?"

"Just, just read the article, Spike." Xander threw an arm over his eyes, and stole Spike's cigarette, taking a deep drag.

"Hey! None of that, now!"

"Hypocrite."

"I don't actually need my lungs for breathing. Wanker." Spike clamped down on his cigarette, and began to read, though he did open and pass Xander a beer. "So. This bloke goes running out into his yard in the middle of the night to kill a noisy chicken what's keeping him awake, sets about cutting its head off, and lops off his John Thomas instead. Something fishy there if you ask me."

"What do you mean?" Xander dropped the now-empty beer bottle onto the coffee table.

"Well think about it, luv. You ever killed a chicken?"

"Uh. From coastal California, here. That would be a no, Spike."

Rolling his eyes, Spike set the paper aside and propped his elbows on his knees, eyebrows raised. "Right, then. Quickest and easiest way to kill a chicken is to snap its neck. Anyone what owns chickens knows how easy it is to do it that way. No muss, no fuss, just," Spike made an abrupt twisting motion with his hands, "and snap! Got it? Child could do it. So what was this bloke doing trying to chop its head off in the first place? They thrash around like bloody blazes."

At Xander's utterly blank look, Spike continued. "You're getting the idea now. Lots easier to run out there bare-handed than it is to grab a knife on your way out the door, isn't it? And if he was wearing boxers like it says here, pretty bleeding difficult to mistake the one for the other unless he had it out and flopping about, and why on earth would he do that?"

"Okay, then, Watson, what do you think actually happened?"

"Here, now. If you're to be throwing literary references about, I'm Holmes, not Watson." Spike sniffed, finished his cigarette, and stubbed it out. "You're Watson. So you tell me what you think might've really happened."

Xander sighed, thinking. "Okay, aside from vengeance demons, because that's letting a guy off pretty light in the vengeance business, how's this? His wife got angry and chopped it off in his sleep, then threw it to the dog, and he didn't want to admit it to the police."

"Not a bad guess. Not a bad guess. Unfortunately, not the right guess either." Spike cleared his throat. "It's elementary, my dear Xander. Clearly, the fellow was up to some sort of elaborate fetish involving chickens, blood, and blades," Spike said, perfectly seriously.

Xander stared. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Why? Stranger things have been done than tossing off in fresh chicken blood. Warmer that way, just slick enough. And if he'd been doing that, he was hardly likely to admit it to the press now, was he? Had to make up some silly story on the spot, most like." Spike considered. "Decent story, really, when you consider he made it up after having his prick lopped off and devoured by the hounds."

"Okay, Spike. You're going to tell me you're just kidding any moment, right?" Xander paled. "Right?"

"It's what they say, pet," Spike said, leaning over to give Xander's leg a pat. "Kinky is using a feather; perverted is when you use the whole chicken."

"That's disgusting."

"Well makes more sense than that bit of twaddle." Spike gestured to the crumpled newspaper and lay back, planting his head comfortably in Xander's warm lap. "Evil vampire, pet. We know from perverted, so you mark my words. 'Sides, there's bugger-all else to do for fun in Romania, and eating gypsies is hazardous to a fellow's health."